Darkness.
Then—
Purgatory.
The river flowed.
Endless. Patient. Watching.
Damian stood at its edge again.
One arm missing.
Blood still dripping from the phantom sensation of where it had once been.
But there was no pain.
There was never pain anymore.
Only information.
Only adjustment.
Only continuation.
His hollow eyes stared into the river as distorted reflections of himself flickered across its surface—versions of him screaming, crying, begging.
He didn't react.
Those versions no longer existed.
They had died somewhere between the first loop…
…and the hundredth.
Behind him, the abyss of Transit pulsed.
Calling.
Damian tilted his head slightly.
Analyzing.
The Spirit of Regret.
Fast.
Faster than the previous one.
Capable of forming weapons.
Regenerates instantly.
Core not yet located.
Requires restraint to extract.
Conclusion—
Current method insufficient.
He smiled faintly.
Then stepped forward.
And jumped.
Five seconds before death.
The sword descended.
Damian moved instantly.
This time—
He didn't dodge.
He stepped into it.
The blade severed his arm again.
But he had already adjusted.
Before the arm could fall—
He caught it.
Again.
But instead of throwing it—
He used it.
He forced the severed limb into the spirit's body.
"Devour."
The arm dissolved inside it.
The Spirit of Regret screamed.
Its form destabilized.
The faces within it twisted violently.
For a moment—
It couldn't move properly.
Damian's eyes sharpened.
Progress.
He stepped forward—
Reached—
Almost—
The spirit's form snapped back.
Its sword flashed.
His head rolled.
Purgatory.
River.
Transit.
Jump.
Again.
Five seconds.
This time—
He sacrificed his arm earlier.
Caught it sooner.
Forced it deeper.
Held longer.
The spirit screamed louder.
Its form destabilized more.
Damian reached further—
His fingers brushed something.
Inside.
A resistance.
Dense.
But—
The sword struck again.
His torso split open.
He collapsed.
Purgatory.
Transit.
Jump.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each death—
Not wasted.
Each loop—
A refinement.
He learned the timing.
The distance.
The angle.
The reaction speed.
He learned how long the spirit staggered.
How deep he needed to reach.
How its form reacted to intrusion.
How its regeneration delayed when destabilized.
The Spirit of Regret did not learn.
It did not adapt.
It only repeated.
But Damian—
Evolved.
Purgatory.
He stood at the edge again.
But now—
He wasn't just observing.
He was calculating.
Hundreds of deaths layered into instinct.
Thousands of micro-adjustments embedded into muscle memory.
His missing arm—
Irrelevant.
Temporary.
Replaceable.
A tool.
Everything was a tool.
Even himself.
He looked at Transit.
And smiled wider than before.
Then jumped again.
Five seconds before death.
The sword fell.
Damian stepped in.
Perfect.
The blade severed his arm.
Perfect.
He caught it.
Perfect.
He drove it into the spirit's body—
Deeper than before.
The spirit screamed.
Its entire form convulsed.
Damian stepped forward—
Closing the gap completely.
His body pressed against the spirit.
Ignoring the corrosive energy tearing at his skin.
His right hand plunged into its core mass.
Deeper.
Further.
Searching—
Then—
He felt it.
A core.
Smaller than the last one.
Denser.
Violent.
Beating like a heart made of hatred and despair.
His fingers wrapped around it.
The spirit's scream turned into something else.
Fear.
For the first time—
It resisted.
Not instinctively.
But desperately.
Its sword began forming again—
Faster than ever before.
Damian's eyes locked onto the core.
No emotion.
No hesitation.
Just conclusion.
This is it.
The blade pierced his chest.
Straight through.
He coughed blood.
His grip tightened.
The spirit tried to pull away—
But Damian leaned forward.
Closer.
Forcing his body into it.
Pinning it with sheer proximity.
The sword twisted inside him.
Destroying everything.
His body was already failing.
His vision dimming.
But his hand—
Did not loosen.
He smiled.
Wide.
Unnatural.
Then—
He ripped.
The core tore free.
The Spirit of Regret exploded into fragments of light and screams.
Its form collapsed.
Shattered.
Gone.
Damian fell.
His body hit the ground.
Lifeless.
Purgatory.
He stood there again.
But something was different.
The river was quieter.
The whispers—
Distant.
Fading.
He looked at his hand.
The core was still there.
Gripped tightly.
Even in death.
Even here.
Sophie's voice echoed softly.
"…You actually did it."
Damian didn't respond.
He looked toward Transit.
Then at the core.
Then back at the abyss.
His smile returned.
"Not yet," he said quietly.
Then—
He crushed the core in his hand.
Light exploded.
Darkness followed.
And something deep within him—
Shifted.
Five seconds before death.
Damian opened his eyes.
Back in the cave.
His arm—
Restored.
The Spirit of Regret—
Gone.
The chamber—
Silent.
Only the pool of blood remained.
Still.
Dead.
Damian stood there.
Unmoving.
Then slowly—
He exhaled.
Not in relief.
Not in exhaustion.
But in completion.
Sophie appeared beside him.
Watching him carefully.
"…You're getting worse," she said.
Damian tilted his head slightly.
"Worse?"
A pause.
Then—
A faint smile.
"No."
He looked deeper into the cave.
"Better."
The air shifted.
Something deeper inside the ruins stirred.
Stronger.
Watching.
Waiting.
And Damian—
Stepped forward.
Ready to hunt again.